


Reunion

by afflatussolace



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Lalafell (Final Fantasy XIV), Lalafell Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Reunions, takes place at the beginning of the 'looking for alphinaud' questline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afflatussolace/pseuds/afflatussolace
Summary: Despite being separated from his Warrior of Light for a whole summer, she never once left his mind.
Relationships: Alphinaud Leveilleur/Original Character(s), Alphinaud Leveilleur/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my [tumblr](https://whitherliliesbloom.tumblr.com/post/189307086564/memoirs-2-reunion)!

A year in the grand scheme of the ever spinning world means nothing. It’s far too short a time to him, whose ambitions and goals reached as far up as the stars. He can recall so much that has happened within the span of a year in Eorzea, yet all the same, it passed by so quickly that the memories of his arrival in Gridania felt like it had been a mere week ago. Yet staring up at the eternally blinding shimmers of light that pierced through a thin layer of clouds, with not even the comfort of her always reassuring words and touch to ease him, a single year has never more felt like an eternity to him as it did now.

There is nobody there he could speak to, or rather anybody that could ever feasibly fill the void in his heart. The aching is ever more apparent in the silence, as his mind torments him with memories of her.

Busying himself with work can only do so much to ease the pain until he’d inevitably be driven away. How cruel an irony it was that the kindness of those he’d been helping would refuse his labour out of worry for his wellbeing that he’d be at his most troubled and wary.

He’s very much unlike his sister . During the few and far between trips either of them would take to visit the other, there was not a single time that the name of the Warrior of Light had not left Alisaie’s lips. Lamenting her unceremoniously leaving the lalafellin girl quite literally in the middle of a wartorn battlefield, or the unintentional mention of what the hero would do if faced with the same kind of troubles as they did. That was how Alisaie chose to cope with her worries and the inconsolable regret for abandoning a dear friend.

Her name however had rarely ever been said in his voice - and if ever, spoken in a thin, hushed tone that was barely louder than a whisper. Because the mere utterance of that name may become his undoing, is far more likely to tear him apart than even the isolation and his lonely fight against the impenetrable city of Eulmore.

Someone calls his name, and their presence barely registers, but he manages to pull his attention away from that mangled haze of longing to look back over his shoulder. A ronso of blue fur is beckoning to him, and for some reason Alphinaud can tell his voice is chirpier than usual.

“Have you need of me, my friend?” The young man turns fully now, gesturing a greeting with a lift of his hand as he barely manages to make out a smile on his earlier frowning lips.

“Aye. Well, not exactly. Someone’s lookin’ for ya.”

‘Someone’, he says. That alone is enough to pique his interest. It’s not often that he specifically gets visitors looking for him. And if it were Alisaie, the ronso would have said so.

“Someone from Eulmore, I reckon?” He garners a guess, and the other male quickly shakes his head.

“No, no. It’s.. a dwarf. Without a helm.”

For a moment, Alphinaud’s mind draws a blank. He pulls up an image of a dwarf within his mind, and is hit by another wave of confusion. Why would one of the First’s most reclusive race of people come looking for him?

He’s seen a few dwarves who dared leave their village during his time in the First, certainly.. and was even lucky enough to make conversation with them, though not more times than he can count on one hand. But something’s odd. Something that doesn’t immediately jump out at him until he’s tried to piece the second piece of information he was given. He’s met dwarves. But he’s never met one without their helmet and beard. Unless…

“Seemed like they knew you,so i wasn’t too suspicious. Had pretty long white hair not unlike yours.”

It’s impossible not to jump to conclusions, not when majority of his time has been spent lost in thought of her.

He’s met many a pint-sized people without their helm, at least where he’s from. From home.

They aren’t called dwarves in the source. They are Lalafells. Unrestricted by the burden of tradition, he’s met a good number of both the shrewd and the kindest of Lalafells in his time. And none more kind than the one who would haunt his dreams for the past twelve months. Every night. Without fail.

White hair. Oh, how he’s wanted to run his fingers through her hair for so long. How he longed to hear her voice.

Without even a hint of doubt, Alphinaud steps forward, unknowingly clenching his fists as he speaks out as if in demand.

“Where is she?”

Satisfied that the boy now seemed to know who this mysterious visitor is, and more than anything, seemed eager at the chance to meet them, Eybor gestures backwards.

“I asked 'em to meet ya at the Leaky Keel. Now go.”

His order wasn’t exactly necessary, for as soon as he’d uttered the name of that tavern, his feet had carried him far from the satisfied gaze of the Ronso. Walking to Stilltide has never felt more like a hike than it did now.

Alphinaud’s method of keeping calm while nervous isn’t exactly unknown, at least to those closest to him. And if his sister were here, no doubt she’d be teasing him about the tension in his brows, and the knot rapidly building up in his throat that he has to swallow down more than a handful of times. That is, if she weren’t sprinting her way to meet their guest of honor too.

But despite all the jittery excitement bubbling within his chest, there was that uncertainty and fear that this may just be some kind of elaborate lucid dream.

What if he’d mistaken? What if it were somebody else? Perhaps he’d heard Eybor wrong, and his unconscious desperation to see the Warrior of Light had somehow clogged his eardrums and hazed his senses. He’s bombarded with a myriad of conflicting emotions, and it almost forces his knees to give way. The only thing keeping him going forward being his distant dream of reuniting with her.

Alphinaud pushes open the door to the Leaky Keel a tad too hard than usual, though the the lady behind the counter seemed to not even take notice to his presence.

Something is tugging at the side of his head, a raging urge to look deeper inside the tavern for the source of that unmistakable presence. But his fear keeps his neck locked in position.

“And how is business today, mistress Theva?”

He prays she doesn’t hear how his voice shook as he spoke, prays that she doesn’t see his fingers shake despite his efforts to keep himself calm.

She’s always been the best at reading his tells.

The bar mistress turns around with a welcoming smile, and though he’d attempted to keep his greeting strictly between them in a poor attempt at ignorance of the special guest sitting at the far end of the tavern, she’s quick to force him to finally face his inner fear.

“Look, i have a new customer.”

If he could stop time now, he would. He’d pray dearly to the twelve to grant him this desperate wish, to hear his plea if they would not listen to any of his other prayers.

Beneath the cool facade that was his unflappable expression, he was an utter mess, groveling on what little hope he’s been presented with.

For what else is there he could do? What else can he do other than to let his love tear away at his aching heart? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally turns, blue eyes settled on the woman who practically throws herself off the barstool.

“Alphinaud.”

He doesn’t know when his vision turned blurry, or when the ball in his throat had built up so large it almost causes him to choke.

He’d rehearsed their reunion more times than he’d like to admit, practiced what he wanted to say on the day they would undoubtedly meet again. Even if it was an eternity away, he’d still keep repeating that same sappy, perhaps a tad self-confident speech within his head.

But the moment he sees her glossy violet eyes gazing up at him with a warmth that spoke of her equal longing for him, and the tugging of her thin little lips upwards to form the most gentle and radiant of smiles, he completely fails to remember the script he’d written for himself for the past three hundred days.

“'Tis good to see you again, Illya.”


End file.
